Erin Go Barf - Happy Paddy's Day, Ya Lying Bastards

I’m not Irish, although I was raised a catholic, so I guess that may make me Irish-ish. Or does that make Irish folks more Monkey-ish?

Where the hell is a philosopher when I need one? You know, there ought to be traveling philosophers, on call to come and resolve issues like this which arise at the most inopportune times. I mean, they’ve got traveling notaries and auto mechanics, and they don’t solve things nearly as mentally aggravating as the whole Irish-ish/Money-ish thing.

Great, now I have a headache. Where the hell was I going with this? Maybe I should just press the eject button before this gets really stupid, or is it too late already? No, I must push on … I’ve made a commitment to post something, and goddamnit I will. Another beer, yeah, that’ll do it … lube up the synapses so they start firing with greater abandon, making more connections and drawing references from wider and wider sources.

So, where was I? The Irish, right. Ya gotta love those bastards. Any culture that gives us Joyce, Guinness, and U2 can’t be bad. Plus, the Irish cuss a lot. World class. Yeah, ya gotta love the Irish. The best part of the Irish is their genetic propensity for mendacity. These boys can lie. Of course, they try and sugarcoat the whole thing by calling it blarney, but you can’t piss on my shoes and make me believe it’s rain. The Irish as a race are natural liars. Worse even than Sicilians or those Finnish swine.

Need proof? Take St. Patrick’s day. Little more than a green-vomit soaked bacchanaliaof drunken brawls, sexual assault, and bravado celebrating some guy ridding Ireland of snakes. A real local hero, that one. Ireland’s most favored son. Erin go brah, and too-ra-loo-ra-loora. Kiss Me, I’m Irish indeed. Not on that mouth, Seamus. The wee fact that these shamrock wearing vermin don’t mention is that Paddy never did drive a single snake off the Emerald Isle. Not one. Nada, zip, zilch. Oh, and that thing about being a saint? Yeah, well, they meant to tell you about that. See, he isn’t one. Seems as if Old Paddy was never canonized by Holy Mother Church, so this saint thing: just another damned Irish lie.

Liar!

The bastards.

And here I was, buying into it all. The green beer. The tasty red-headed Colleens. They had me hook, line and sinker. I believed every bit of it. At least, I did. As you can see, I’m wiser now. Those pug-nosed little scumbags can’t fool me any longer. Want to know what opened my eyes to the treachery and deceit that flows through the veins of every Irishman that ever breathed air? Of course you do.

Corned Beef and Cabbage.

Yah, that. Those potato-eating gremlins want me to believe that boiled meat tastes good. Think about that. Boiled meat! Not roasted then put into a stew, nor grilled before being gently pulled and smothered in a sauce. A hunk of fatty beef tossed in a pot of water to get boiled. As if the thought wasn’t unappealing enough, looking at it is even worse. All the color washed out so the meal looks like a faded Polaroid snapshot circa 1956. Just the thought is making me cringe.

Icky Food

But props to the Irish. Scumbag liars that they are, you still gotta love those geeks. Besides, any race that invented Guinness gets a free pass for life.

Ook ook